


Soiled Dove

by Lightspeed



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Mirrors, Uniform Kink, Unrequited Lust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-13 17:28:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/826895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightspeed/pseuds/Lightspeed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spy disguises as Medic not for work, but for his own amusement, and lets his imagination run wild.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soiled Dove

Grey temples: check. Spit-curl: check. Spectacles: check. Clean, crisp uniform, hugging all of the lines of his body: so very double check.

Spy admired his handiwork in the full-length mirror hanging on the wall of his quarters. The master of disguise never failed to meet his own exceedingly high expectations of himself. He was the perfect double of his team's Medic, down to the mirror-polish of the long boots that ended just below his knees, the elbow-length chemical-resistant gloves, and the slight wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. Straightening the red tie that peeked just barely above the front of his coat, he let his eyes drift along the lines he'd built with the soft, heavy linens he wore. His shirt was white, immaculate, tucked into dark umber slacks that sat high on his waist, belted tightly with black leather, the buckle small and unobtrusive. Over top, a wide, leather belt held his coat close against his body, providing support for the y-strap running up over his shoulders, the rig that held Medic's medigun backpack array in place. Spy didn't bother with such bulky, unsightly equipment. It wasn't important for what he was dressing for.

His shoulders squared, the coat lay flush against him, just loose enough where he needed to move, but clinging like a needy lover against his chest and belly, flaring just a bit where the belt crossed him and held him close. He licked his lips, eyeing up the off-white fabric, the shadows of the small folds around his shoulders, elbows, and sides, the bulge where they entered his gloves. He shifted his weight, leaning back on his heel, watching the tails of the long coat move, tailored away from his legs but to flap in the back. On the battlefield, he would watch Medic running often, admiring the way that perfect coat was designed to enhance the spry doctor's natural grace. Fluttering behind him, the tails of his coat lent a feline silhouette, or perhaps it resembled the wings of a diving bird, soaring through the air of his own accord, gravity be damned. Spy smiled. He realized he quite liked that comparison.

Few realized that without all of his heavy equipment weighing him down, the German was as fast as their Scout. The doctor, pumped full of chemicals and experimenting on himself for years, was far fitter than any who hadn't bothered to dig up and pour through his dossier realized. It was a simple matter of looking at him that could allow an easy guess, however. Tall, trim, and speedy, Medic was a picture of masculinity and athleticism, of physical and mental perfection. He could possibly be the übermench.

The image of the tall, proud man in almost-white striding across the battlefield, bringing life to the dying was one Spy couldn't shake. He loved to watch the medics in action, even the opposing team's. It gave him no small sense of guilt every time he pierced that lovely uniform with his knife, driving it into lungs from behind, draining the life of the guardian angel of his opponent's team. To snuff out poetry in motion, to destroy the divine. It was beautiful and tragic at the same time to Spy, to commit such sacrilege.

He'd far rather commit a different kind of sin. He'd rather slide his hands around hips, up the back of that coat, of those surrogate wings, tear shirt tails from under their belt, to run his fingers along hot, smooth skin. He'd rather bow before that angel to unfasten and peel down those tidy slacks, to worship something far more secular and carnal. He'd rather feel the smooth leather of those shining, creaking boots around his hips, those gloves grasping his shoulders, rubber against bare flesh. He'd rather watch the tails of that coat flapping not from the breeze of rapid footfalls, but shaking with each thrust, each needful, furious stroke as he drove into Medic's tight bottom. To feel that smooth, crisp linen against his bare chest as he leaned in, biting bare flesh just above that starched collar. To take that dove of a man and soil him with his sweat and his saliva and his seed.

Spy hadn't realized when he'd opened his trousers and taken his manhood out, into his hand. He hadn't registered when he began to stroke himself with one hand, caressing the soft linen over his chest, reaching down the front of that coat to withdraw his tie and tug on it, heaving ragged groans in the lonely confines of his quarters. He watched the lines of his uniform, crinkling, creasing, stretching with each shaking movement as he grew closer, biting his lip. His eyes lingered up to his face, Medic's face, twisted in shame and pleasure, and could contain himself no longer. With a shrill cry in the doctor's voice, he spent himself onto the mirror before him, painting his view of that immaculate uniform with his come.

Spy stared for some time at his semen on the mirror, imagining what it would be like to sully the real uniform, on the real doctor, in such fashion. His eyes drifted to the face he wore, blushing, sweaty, sated, and he smiled. He quite liked that look on Medic. He'd have to make it happen for real some time.

**Author's Note:**

> requested by Zigraves


End file.
